Lotte
by Persephone Charming
Summary: Straight Erik/Christine, no-OC fic. Basically what would happen if Christine stopped being swoony and actually dealt with the skeletons in the closet or rather, ghosts in the basement
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Look, a new story! Maybe I'll actually be able to finish this one since I actually know the plot from beginning to end... expect misunderstandings, Punjab lassos, and Raoul-bashing... also random exclamations in French - 'cause I can - don't worry, nothing too esoteric xP_

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"Girl! Get your head out of the clouds!"

_Madame Giry's voice is as sharp as her stick_, Christine thought. "We were very sad to hear about your mother's death," Giry continued, "but you must try to _concentrate_."

"Oui, Madame," said Christine, embarrassed. This was only her first week at the Opéra de Paris, and while her mother had been tolerant of her absent-mindedness, the strict dancing mistress certainly was not. But how was Christine supposed to keep her mind on a dance she didn't like when the other girls kept telling her stories, ones she couldn't help but daydream about?

Meg Giry gave a tentative smile as Christine slunk to the back of the chorus, one Christine returned. Meg had never really spoken to her, but she seemed nice – much more so than her mother.

"From the beginning of the aria, then—"

_BANG!_

Half the chorus jumped as the auditorium doors slammed open. Three figures hurried through and down the center aisle – Monsieur Lefèvre, the theatre manager, and two people Christine had never seen before. She snuck a glance at Meg, and was surprised to see that the other girl looked as if she'd just been witness to a murder.

"Oh, _no_," she whispered.

"What?" Christine demanded, as quietly as she could. "What's _wrong_?"

"She's back. I thought she was gone," Meg said.

"Who? Who is back?"

"_Carlotta_," moaned Meg, shooting Christine a fearful look. "The lead soprano. She's _horrid_, she makes everyone do errands for her and she is awful to the chorus. She complains we drown her out and Giselle says she hit her once—"

Meg broke off as the little group reached the stage. The entire chorus, including Madame Giry, was silent. Christine was mystified. She had never seen Giry look so grim.

"Signora, please," Lefèvre was saying to a tall, slender woman in luxurious furs, who had her nose in the air and a distinctly unpleasant expression on her face. "We are being paid a great deal to perform _Les Bois _and I cannot afford to lose you!"

"Certainly," added the other man dryly, "the more money they get from this, the easier my life is."

"Who's that?" Christine hissed in Meg's ear.

"Monsieur the Baron of Rochester, our patron. He moved here from England and he is a very rich man."

"I shall not work with zese… zese blundering schoolgirls, zey are _imposseeble_," Carlotta said, with a dramatic gesture at the staring chorus.

"Why doesn't she like us?" said Christine.

"I don't know. Isn't she terrible?" Meg stared at the woman with undisguised hatred.

"Please, signora," said the Baron in the same dry voice. "I am sure that if they fail to cooperate, we will find someone that will."

The chorus girls huddled closer together, exchanging glances. Carlotta beamed and moved to plant a kiss on the Baron's cheek.

"You see?" she cried. "A man who can be reasonable."

"Indeed," the Baron said, "I know a fine young lady who would sing the lead for half your cost, and as I seem to be paying an extra twenty thousand francs, _per month_, for no particular reason, a lessening of expenses would be most welcome."

Carlotta looked aghast. Meg giggled behind her hand.

"Our patron is the only one who can make her behave herself," she said, and Christine noticed she had gone rather red. "He is very good at getting people to act properly."

"I've never been proper," Christine murmured to herself. "And what does he mean, 'an extra twenty thousand francs per month'?"

"It's the Opera Ghost," said Meg, "he's some sort of spirit or something. If Monsieur Lefèvre does not pay him, accidents happen. Monsieur Buquet almost fell out of the flies that way."

"A ghost? Meg, I do not think—"

Christine was interrupted by an angry cry from Carlotta.

"Fine! _Fine! _Eef zat ees ze way we are going to play eet, zen I do not know 'ow much longer I weel be singing here!" And she stormed out.

Giry, Lefèvre, and the Baron exchanged glances.

"If only," the Baron said. "Alas, messieurs, I too have grave news. After _Les Bois_, I am afraid I will have to return to England."

"But why?" said Lefèvre. "You're the only one who can keep that woman under control!"

"It is truly regrettable," agreed the Baron. He had a resigned expression. "However, my wife has, shall we say, taken ill, and I must go to her as soon as I can. It was hard enough for me to secure the time I will need to find you a new patron."

"_Merci_, Monsieur," Giry said. "You will be missed."

The Baron gave a short nod and smiled slightly.

"And now, messieurs, the time has come for me to bid you adieu." He kissed Giry's hand, and shook Lefèvre's; then he donned his hat and swept away off the stage.

"I wonder who he will find for us?" said Lefèvre after a moment. Madame Giry merely shrugged. There was another brief silence. Then everyone began talking at once.

"At least he is trying to make sure we still have an investor," said Meg, who looked crestfallen, "but I would very much rather he did not leave at all." Christine gave her what she hoped was a comforting smile.

"So that was our star," she said. The girl closest to her raised her eyes to the ceiling. To her right, off in the wings, Christine heard what sounded like a derisive snort. She peered into the curtains, which swayed as if in a sudden breeze, but there was no-one there.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Don't." Meg put her hand on Christine's shoulder. "You won't see him, not if he does not want you to."

"But who was it?"

"I _told _you," Meg said. "The Phantom. The Opera Ghost. He watches us practice. I know because sometimes maman or Monsieur Lefèvre get notes from him.

"But—" Christine stared at the swaying curtains. She knew she had heard something, but no-one could have disappeared that quickly… was he really a ghost? Father would have laughed and ruffled her hair and told her something silly. He had always spoken of ghosts and angels. But Father was dead, and Christine was beginning to doubt his promises to her.

"Girls! Girls!" Madame Giry banged her stick on the stage. At once the chorus stopped chattering and tried to quickly shuffle themselves into a semblance of order. "You are dismissed," Giry said. "Clearly you are in no mood to work."

There was a smatter of guilty mumbling.

"Well," Giry said, smiling slightly, "we still have three weeks. You have been improving. Very well – go on."

The girls dispersed happily, until only Christine was left, still watching the curtains.

"Come on," Meg said. "You daydream a lot, don't you?"

"Yes." Christine smiled at her new friend. "I am sorry."

"Don't be. You should probably hurry, though. It is getting late." Meg took Christine's arm and led her backstage. As they passed through the wings, Christine looked up and could have sworn she saw someone – or something – disappear into the shadows. She clutched at Meg's arm.

"Is it really a ghost?"

"What?"

"You— all the girls— they said he is a ghost, that he can change his shape— I thought they were only telling stories—"

Meg looked at Christine, who was still peering intently into the heights of the wings where the curtains and backdrops were lowered and raised.

"Did you see him?" she said.

"I – I don't know. I think I saw someone, but – he is gone."

Meg grinned.

"You see! He watches. Sorelli says she ran into him once, but no-one believes her. He won't hurt us, but sometimes Monsieur Lefèvre forgets his pay and sets will break or things will get lost or people will fall over ropes…" Meg shrugged. "I have never seen him, but I almost would like to."

At this another girl passing in the hall stopped and gave Meg a long cold stare; after a moment she stalked away, calling over her shoulder, "_tu es stupide, Giry, il t'écoute!_"

Meg thumbed her nose at the other girl's retreating back.

"Even if he is listening," she told Christine, "I do not think he will show himself to me unless he's a reason for it."

_Splendid, _Christine thought, _as if they expect me to concentrate _now _when there's a mischievous ghost afoot…_


	2. Chapter 2

_AN// Yay another chapter!  
Due to my complete inability to navigate this site (and the fact that the chapter title space has a frikkin' short character allowance), the first chapter did not have its designated title, which was _In Which The Opéra de Paris Loses a Patron, but Sadly not a Prima Donna. _Also, don't expect twice-weekly updates; I'll try for every Thursday in the future._

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**_Chapter_ Two:** In Which Carlotta "Sings", and Christine Spends a Night at the Opera

It was the first of the dress rehearsals, a week before the premier of _Les Bois_, and Christine had almost forgotten about her encounter with the Opera Ghost in all the bustle. Everyone was in costume, and for the first time everyone would be performing together the whole way through – including, unfortunately, Carlotta, who had not left as she threatened. The chorus had previously been able to avoid working with her, so this would be the first time Christine would see her perform. She wondered why the public liked her so much; from what Christine had seen of her, she was in no way a likeable person.

The dark gray dress swirled behind Christine as she made her way from the dressing room to the stage. She liked it, the way the skirt rustled as she walked, and the fact that the bodice, for once, was not made of whalebone.

"Christine!" Meg appeared, dressed in the same gray. "You look lovely."

"I'm nervous," Christine admitted. "I have never performed before."

"This isn't a performance, _ma chérie_," Meg said, waving a hand, "it's only a rehearsal. We'll try again on Wednesday."

"Yes, but," said Christine, "I'm nervous. And I don't want to get in the way. Or sing poorly. Or something."

Meg smiled.

"Don't worry, I felt the same," she said, taking Christine's arm. "Once you start it's easier. And you are only in the chorus. It is a sad truth that the audience don't care very much about us."

Christine was only slightly consoled.

The curtains were down on the stage when they entered. The backdrop had been painted with dense trees; more wooden flats were arranged by the wings. Meg and Christine took their places among these, while Madame Giry paced along the center stage.

"_Elle est en retard, toujours en retard, ça femme, elle est incroyable…!" _she muttered to herself as she paced. She pulled a gold watch from the front of her dark dress, flicked it open, snapped it shut, and resumed her pacing. "_Merde_! Where is that girl?"

Joseph Buquet's head appeared from above the backdrop.

"She is coming now, Madame," he said.

"Finally!" Madame Giry looked around at the waiting chorus. "Brace yourselves…"

A moment later Carlotta swished onto the stage, all in white with a veil over her face, looking dismayed.

"Eet ees tragic, simply tragic!" she said. One hand fluttered over her heart. "Zey did _not _make ze dress right and zey could not redo it! I shall have to sing een an incompetent costume! Imagine!"

"Truly, our hearts bleed for you. You are late," said Madame Giry, shaking her stick at Carlotta. "Your place, please."

Carlotta glared at the dancing-mistress, but did not argue. She simply stalked to the center stage, nose in the air. Madame Giry slipped out of her way and disappeared backstage. The orchestra started, the curtains were raised, and the Prima Donna began to sing. Christine winced and tried to figure out the best way to cover her ears without moving her hands. Meg gave her a sympathetic look. Christine sighed. This was going to be harder than she thought.

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Some time later, Christine noticed that the curtains were falling.

"It's over?"

"Yes, finally," said Meg, unpinning her hair and letting her wild curls fall all around her face. "You did very well, _ma chérie_."

"Thank you," Christine said, blushing. "You were right – it was not that frightening." She turned at her dressing-room door and grinned at Meg, then stepped through into the room. She sighed as she dropped the heavy dress to the floor – under those newfangled electric lights, the stage got very hot. She wandered to the dressing table in just her shift and petticoats and began to pack up her things. Then she noticed that something was missing. The Book.

_Mon Dieu, I'm so forgetful. Where did I put that thing…? _Christine rifled through the papers on the table, poked in all the drawers, and checked behind her dressing-table, just in case. The Book was nowhere to be found. She sighed. It had taken her ages to copy out all of the songs by hand, but Giry would not let her borrow a copy of _Les Bois _from the theatre archives and anyways if that stuck-up Carlotta got wind that Christine was trying to learn the lead part…

Muttering to herself, Christine began to wander aimlessly about the room. She'd probably put it somewhere and forgotten, that was the most likely scenario. But if one of the girls had stolen it and gossiped, hoping to get on Carlotta's good graces, well, Christine probably would not hear the end of it. Just because Father had told her she should sing, she'd thought it a good idea to try and copy the opera to learn in her spare time.

"Christine! What are you doing in there?"

Christine looked up and realized she'd been pacing for quite a while.

"Come in, Meg."

Meg poked her head in.

"Not even dressed! What have you been doing the last hour? The theatre's about to close for the night!"

"Hour?" repeated Christine dazedly. "I lost… something."

"What?"

"A book, a notebook, I'd copied _Les Bois _into it," Christine said. Meg rolled her eyes and came the rest of the way into the dressing-room.

"Honestly, woman," she said, trying to hide a smile. "You do have a penchant for trouble, don't you?"

"Do I?"

"It's all a part of your charm, my dear. Come on, you can search for it on Wednesday."

"No, I have to find it," Christine said. "If someone else does…"

"Silly! What are you afraid of?" Meg couldn't hide her smile any longer. "It's just a book. You're a good singer; you have every right to get a copy of the opera if you want."

"Yes, but," said Christine, "Carlotta will have me thrown into the Seine if she thinks I'm trying to steal her part."

"She won't be here until Wednesday either."

"I'll stay here and look for it," Christine persisted, "and leave as soon as I'm done. I can lock up the theatre behind me."

Meg made an exasperated noise.

"Chris_tine_," she said, "you cannot possibly think of walking home in through Paris in the dark in the middle of the night. It's almost midnight, silly. The last cab is going to leave in five minutes – you'll have to hurry to get dressed as it is."

"Then I'll stay here overnight," Christine said. She really didn't know why she was being so obstinate, but she needed the Book. She had gone through too many hours of effort to write the bloody thing, and she certainly wasn't going to leave it for someone to find.

"You can't do that, maman and Monsieur Lefèvre will never allow it."

"I'll lock the doors and Madame Giry will chain the gates. No one will get in, I'll be safe."

"That's hardly the point," muttered Meg. "You—"

"Meg! Where are you?"

"Merde, it's maman!" Meg turned to shout out the dressing-room door. "Coming, maman!"

"Now, Meg!"

"You see? Time to go."

"I'll be fine, _really_," Christine said, taking her friend by her shoulders and propelling her into the hall. "I will see you tomorrow in the morning at Café Fleur, just like always."

Meg turned to glare at her.

"If you don't, you are dead," she said. Christine smiled at her and closed the door. As soon as she heard Meg hurry away, she slumped against it and sighed. A moment later, the lights all went out.

Christine swore under her breath. That was the thing with the new electricity – when they turned it out, it all went out. She fumbled through her room in the dark until she found a kerosene lamp, scrabbled around the dressing table for a match, and after several failed attempts, managed to light it. A small pool of light blossomed around her, barely illuminating the four walls of the chamber. Now that the adrenaline and the heat from the stage lights had died away, Christine was cold in just her underclothes. She moved slowly through the half-dark until she found the heavy gray overdress, and was just putting it back on when something rustled behind her.

Christine whirled around, the sudden movement sending lantern-light flickering over the walls. There was no-one there, but—

The Book was sitting on her dressing table, as innocently as if it had been there the whole time. Christine knew it hadn't. The gossip that had left her head the past two weeks came flooding back to her.

Suddenly the idea of spending a whole night alone in the opera house was not so appealing.

"Hello?" she called out, heart pounding in her chest. "_Allô? Qui êtes-vous? Je sais que vous êtes là! Parlez-vous anglais? __Allô? _"

"I speak English."

Christine jumped about a foot in the air and almost dropped the lantern. The voice that had spoken was quiet, and sounded vaguely amused.

"Who are you?" she demanded, and was answered with a soft laugh.

"I don't know. You lot have so many names for me. Why don't you tell me?" Before Christine could speak, the voice continued, "you are a brave little dancer to stay here at night all alone."

Christine couldn't tell where the voice was. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"_Le fantôme_…"

"If you like." Now he _definitely_ sounded amused. Christine had no idea what to say. Several questions arose in her head, and Christine tried to say them all at once, managing nothing more than a short squeak. He laughed again. "It seems I have found a little mouse."

"I— I—" Christine swallowed, then said in a very tiny voice, "You scared me."

"All of you are scared of me. So why did you stay?"

"I was looking for my book. Why did you take it?"

"I've seen you writing in it every spare moment you have. I was curious. That is all there is to it." Christine got the feeling he was mocking her. Her pounding heart began to slow, and she found she could breathe more easily.

"Are you a ghost?" she ventured.

"Regrettably, no, though sometimes I wish I were." Another laugh, this one tinged with sadness. "Why don't you leave now, _ma petite souris_? You have what you came for."

"I— It is not safe to walk at night, and all the cabs have gone home."

"So you are going to stay here the whole night? Does anyone know?"

"My friend Meg does."

"No one _responsible_?"

"No…"

"You realize," said the voice, and all the laughter had quite suddenly gone out of it, "that I could kill you right now and by the time you washed up on the banks of the Seine, everyone would have forgotten you."

Christine's breath left her again. She scrambled backwards to until her back was against the wall, holding the lantern up. But the room remained empty.

He laughed again, coldly amused. "Girls are so easily frightened. I swear I will not harm a hair on your head, _ma petite souris_."

"Then why—?"

"Because I have no sense of humor." Now he sounded bitter. "Comes from being down here so long, I expect."

There was a silence so long that Christine began to doubt the conversation had really happened and started to think she was dreaming. Then the Opera Ghost spoke up again. "Can you sing?"

"Uh?"

"Of course you can, or you would not be here. Do you know all that music that you so religiously copy?"

"Y-yes…"

"Well then. I have not played for someone in a very long time. I will return shortly, _petite souris_."

There was the slightest of silken rustling, barely audible. Christine waited, but the silence was complete.

_I really am dreaming, _she thought. She didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. She was just about to pinch herself to wake herself up when there was another soft rustle, and then a high, quavering sound: a violin. _He_ was playing it, better than the orchestra, better than Father, and it was sad and sweet and most of all familiar. Christine recognized the melody. She'd heard it in her dreams almost every night since Father died, ten years before.

"_When I am dead, child, my spirit will send you the Angel of Music to guard you for the rest of your life…"_

The day after he said that, Father had taken ill. He'd died of the consumption a month later, and Christine had been left with a grieving mother and a single friend. Then she and Mother had moved away, and Christine only had Mother. Now Mother was dead too, and Christine had… what? A psychotic angel that played the violin? She _must_ be dreaming. She reached over and pinched her arm, hard. It hurt.

"Wake up," she whispered to herself, "wake up, wake up…"

The violin cut off.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I am dreaming," Christine explained. "I must have fallen asleep after rehearsal and I'm dreaming about a ghost who plays music. I should probably wake up now, even though it is a nice dream."

"What brought you to that conclusion?"

"That song you are playing. I always dream about it, ever since my father died. He was ill, and he told me he'd send me an angel from heaven to watch over me. But this is the first time you've ever spoken to me," she said.

Silence. Then, "all the superstitious theatre staff call me a ghost, a horror, and _you _say I'm an angel." The amusement was back in his voice. "Tell me, what is your name, my dear?"

"C-Christine Daaé," she said, thinking that if he was really an angel, wouldn't he already know her name? But she didn't mention this.

"Of _course_," he said, "the little musician's girl. Your father played here once. I remember." There was another short silence, and then a rustle and a click, and he resumed playing the violin. Christine listened for a few moments, marveling at his skill, before once again the music stopped. "You did not really answer my question. Can you sing?"

"I— yes?"

"Let's hear it, then. I told you, it has been years since I have performed with anyone."

"But I—" Christine set the lantern down, mouth dry.

"Shy, are we?" Another dry laugh. "Think of it this way – since you're dreaming anyways, what is there to be self-conscious about?"

Christine relaxed, though she did feel a bit disappointed.

"Then I _am _dreaming."

"I never said that. Those are just your own words." She could hear his smile. "Shall we? Or are all those notes you seem to love just for show?"

"I—" But he had once again taken up his violin and was playing something else now: _La Chanson des Oiseaux_, the opening piece of _Les Bois. _Christine stared around the empty room, lit by the solitary flickering lamp, and began to seriously doubt her sanity. She did not really believe she was dreaming anymore, but then…

"You missed your cue. Look sharp, _ma petite souris_!" He made a 'tsk-tsk' noise and started again from the beginning. Christine gulped and, when her cue came, began to sing, feeling quite foolish as she did:

_Verdier et moineau,__  
Rossignol, corbeau__  
Comment chantez-vous?  
__Comment pouvez-vous attendre__  
Assis dans des cages  
Jamais tenant l'aile ?_

It was a short song, and silly, and the stillness after the angel stopped playing made Christine's face go hot.

There was a sudden short patter of applause.

"Very nice," he said. "You need practice – heavens yes – but you have talent. I am very pleased."

"Um," Christine said, not quite sure whether or not she was being complimented, "oh, good?"

"Well, at least I can understand you. That Carlotta woman is disgraceful."

Christine laughed out loud and then, realizing this, clapped her hands over her mouth. "It is late, Christine Daaé. You must sleep now if you are to be rested for the next rehearsal, and you promised your friend you would meet her tomorrow, did you not?" Above her came a gentle swish, as of a cloak or a cape, and then what sounded like a footstep.

"_Wait!_" Christine called up after him.

"Mm?"

"Will I see— well, I mean— will I see you again?"

"If you wish it." She could tell he was pleased. "For now, though, we must retire." An impossible breeze swept through the room, blowing out the already-dying lamp. "Until Wednesday then. _Bonne nuit, ma petite souris_."

And he was gone.

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_AN// Also, whoever can identify the song I translated into French to come up with this opera, since I was too lazy to write one myself, gets a cookie ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: *hands __Christines_Smart_Replacement/a cookie*_

_Note: To ease any confusion this is all based off Webber's _Phantom_, except for the bits that I make up (like _Les Bois _and the Baron, who has now played his part). I've stolen a couple character names from the book, but this is solely musical._

_Also, Love Never Dies FTL._

_EEEEEyup, here comes Raoul. Duck and cover, everyone!_

_And I apologize for the lateness; gone off to NYC - buuuut you get TWO chapters today! oh joy!_

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**Chapter Three: **In Which _Les Bois _Goes Well, Among Other Strange Occurrences

Christine was awakened by the sun hitting her full in the face. She blinked open her eyes and pushed herself up onto her elbows. Something heavy and silken fell off of her as she did so: a beautiful black evening cape that certainly wasn't hers. It must have been very early, for the sky was still pale lavender, but the sun was peeking over the Paris skyline and shining through the dressing-room window—

But Christine's dressing-room didn't have a window.

She sat up the rest of the way and looked around. She was lying on a plush divan in an enormous room that she knew she had not gone to sleep in. All the roses and the bright pink everything and the gaudiness of the dressing-table all led her to one conclusion – she was in Carlotta's room. But how had she gotten there?

Last night came suddenly back to her. The Book— singing _La Chanson des Oiseaux_— the Phantom—

He must have brought her here. That would explain the cloak, too, so then perhaps last night really had happened. But that was ridiculous. Ghosts couldn't move things as heavy as Christine and humans couldn't stay as well-hidden as he had…

_Perhaps he really _is_ an angel_, Christine thought dazedly. She was still not quite awake, and the bright sun was making her head hurt.

_Bing-bong!_

The loud noise made her jump before she realized it was just the clock in the corner. She peered muzzily at it, then saw that the hands were pointing to a quarter to seven and remembered she had to hurry home, before the maids noticed she hadn't slept in her bed and went to the police.

She gathered the cloak in her arms and ran through the labyrinth of hallways in the back of the Opera House, bare feet slapping on the old wood. She crashed into her own room and quickly pulled on yesterday's dress, not bothering with corset or stockings. She shoved the rest of her belongings into her bag and then stood, staring around the room in the early-morning gloom. Her eyes fell on the silk-and-velvet evening cape, flung carelessly over the back of her chair.

"You'll have to take it," she said aloud, "if they find a man's cape in here there will be all manner of trouble."

There was, unsurprisingly, no answer. Christine sighed and shoved his cape into a drawer. "Sorry," she muttered, "but I am not in the mood for a scandal." She looked around one more time, and then fled the Opéra de Paris.

Wednesday evening found Christine nervous and impatient; Meg mistook this for a case of nerves and demanded one of the younger girls fetch them a glass of water. Christine smiled gratefully and forced herself to calm down, but in truth she was aching for the rehearsal to be over when it hadn't even begun. She wanted to speak to _him _again, hear his voice, have proof that she was not going crazy.

Christine knew she wasn't going to get away with staying over another night – she'd have to hide. After the rehearsal, which passed by in a blur, she tucked her small oil lantern into her bag, left her dressing room and made as if to quit the Opera, then doubled back through the mercifully deserted foyer and scurried into the empty orchestra pit. She waited, hidden in a forest of music stands, until the lights had gone out and she was certain there was no one around. Then she stowed her bags in the pit, lit the lantern, and hurried backstage. She stood in one of the rickety halls and called, "_allô_?"

Almost instantly, there was a reply.

"_Bon soir, ma petite souris_. How are you this evening?"

"You really are real," said Christine, half-wonderingly. "I was worried that I had dreamed it all."

"No, I am quite real," said the ghost. "The orchestra pit was a very clever hiding place, but next time, look for a door on the far left of the stage. Only I know about it and you are much less likely to be discovered."

"Th-thank you. Next time?"

"Well, you cannot sing with such promise and then expect me to just let it sit there, can you?"

"Um…"

He laughed.

"Come now, Christine Daaé," he said, "I am a musician, and a composer, and an architect, and all manner of wonderful things, but one of the things I have not been for far too long is a teacher. You are young and beautiful and talented, and I am much less young, and not nearly so beautiful, and very talented. I can help you."

"Yes?"

He laughed again.

"Was that a question?" When Christine didn't answer, he said, "come. Let me get my violin, and I shall play, and you shall sing, and it will be marvelous. And by the way, do please tell me where my evening cape has gone."

That Saturday, _Les Bois _opened. It was a rather smashing premier, to say the least, with a full house and even a standing ovation. At the end, Christine curtseyed at the curtain call with all the other chorus-girls, quite surprised with how well it went. It was not the only surprise in store. In the audience, there was a very important guest, as she found out from a couple of the gossip-mongers: the _Vicomte de Chagny himself _had attended with his siblings, and he was quite pleased with the performance. And what was more, the rumors went, was that the Chagnys had attended at the prompting of one visiting Briton, the Baron of Rochester.

"I wonder if the Vicomte will be our new patron," Christine wondered aloud from her perch on the foyer banister. Her and about seven other girls were gathered there watching the height of society file out the door. Soon Madame Giry would come and shoo them away, but for the moment they went undisturbed.

"Oh, I do hopeso," said Sorelli, going a bit red, "he's so young and so _very_ handsome"—at which there was a round of tittering from most of the girls, causing a woman in a luxurious dress of emerald velvet to give them all a disapproving stare.

"Did you see him?" Christine queried. Instantly Sorelli's nose pointed to the ceiling.

"Yes, and he's _mine_, so don't you go lusting after him," she said. The other dancers instantly began protesting.

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"Sorelli!"

Christine sighed and shook her head. Noticing Meg had much the same expression on her face, she had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Meg winked, and that was it: Christine burst into giggles and toppled off the railing, cracking her head on the marble staircase.

"_Blesse…_"

"Careful," said a voice, and a hand entered into her field of vision. She took it, noticing the sudden gasps from the girls, and its owner hauled her to her feet. She found herself face-to-face with a dashing young man who couldn't have been more than three or four years older than herself; he also looked glaringly familiar.

"Thank you," Christine said, and he grinned brilliantly at her.

"Of course. Beautiful performance this evening. _Au revoir_." He tipped his hat and vanished among the crowd. As soon as he did, almost every dancer pounced upon Christine.

"That was uncalled-for!"

"You _touched _him?"

"Why'd it have to be you? You don't even like him!"

"He spoke to you!"

"I _said_ you lot can't have him!"

"That was the Vicomte?" Christine said, staring in the direction he had left. She must have seen him in the audience, then, and that was why he looked so familiar… "Huh."

At that moment, the Vicomte appeared again at the foyer doors accompanied by his elder brother and youngest sister, and as he exited, Christine heard him clearly say, "it is a terrible shame that they have no investor; I shall have to look into it further."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: **In Which The Opéra Gets a New Patron and a New Piece

"What do I call you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You have a name, don't you? What's your name?" It must have been very late. The evening's lesson was concluded; Christine would leave soon and the Opera Ghost would go back to… wherever it was he spent all his time.

"You may call me whatever you wish," he said, which didn't really answer her question.

"But—"

"All in due time, my dear. It is late now. You must sleep, and meet Mademoiselle Giry at your café, and do whatever it is that you do when you are not here. I will see you tomorrow evening. I must say, you are doing very well."

Christine felt him leave. She smiled in the darkness, and curled up in the big armchair she'd salvaged from the props department, and slept.

"Well, well. Look what we have here."

Christine snapped her eyes open and found herself face-to-face with Madam Giry.

"Madame!"

"Good morning, my dear. What brings you here so early?" Giry's voice was dangerously calm.

"I—I—" Christine couldn't think of anything to say. The dancing-mistress seemed to fill the entire dressing-chamber. "I—"

And then, quite suddenly, Giry smiled.

"You are either a very lucky or a very misfortunate girl."'

"Uh?"

"Our Phantom has taken a shining to you."

"You _know _about him?" Christine stared at Madame Giry, entirely unsure what to say.

"Absolutely not; do not be ridiculous, I have no idea what is going through that silly head of yours. Come with me, girl. Since you are here early anyways, you might as well help me get set up for tonight's performance." Suddenly brusque, Madame Giry grabbed Christine by the arm and pulled her bodily from the room.

"Tonight's performance?" echoed Christine as she followed Madame Giry down the hall. "But it is Thursday, we do not perform on Thursdays—"

"We have a new patron, and with it, a new opera," said Giry. "So tonight is our closing performance of _Les Bois_. How are you getting on with that, by the way?"

"What?"

"Come now, I've seen you sneaking back in here when you thought no-one was watching. I know what you have been doing here, my dear."

"Oh! Has anyone else seen?"

"No. Let us not talk of this more; I mislike it. Here, we are at the set department. Help me with these flats." Giry began to tug a painted board-and-canvas tree towards the door. Christine grabbed hold of another and pulled it forwards as well. It was heavier than it looked.

"Why aren't Buquet and Monsieur Lefèvre doing this?"

"Buquet is incompetent and Monsieur is not feeling well."

"Is it true what they're saying, that he is going to leave us as well?"

"That," Giry said firmly, "is for Monsieur to decide."

The last performance went beautifully, just as all the others had, with a full house and a great reception. Carlotta took great pleasure in standing on the stage before the show, tears glittering on her cheeks, to announce that this would be the last time she'd ever sing the bride in _Les Bois_. Christine and Meg had to duck down behind Sorelli and Giselle so the audience would not see them laughing: the tears had been meticulously applied with an eye-dropper not two minutes before.

_Les __pinsons qui j'entends dans les bois  
__Ils toujours me chantent de ce qui j'aime  
Même si je ne les jamais vois  
Je sais qu'ils sont là, tout de même !_

The velvet curtain came down, and the chorus gathered to curtsey for the audience when it rose again; then came those with actual parts; finally Carlotta and Ubaldo Piangi (almost as much of a diva as Carlotta herself) took hands and bowed before the crowd, and the curtain dropped on the woods for the final time.

"You are improving," Meg said to Christine as the performers milled happily about the stage. "You must practice so very much."

Christine smiled and said nothing.

"Out of my way!" Carlotta came breezing past them then, knocking Christine into one of the flimsy wooden flats, set up right against the curtain. As she regained her balance, she was sure she heard that very familiar, perpetually-amused voice whisper, "_watch and learn._"

A moment later, Carlotta gave an almighty yell as a rope snagged around her ankle and flipped her, hard, to the ground. To anyone else, it would have seemed as if the rope had been left by a careless hand. Christine had to hide a smile.

"Augh! Sangue! Sto sanguinando!" Carlotta wailed, holding out her mildly scraped arm before her, clutching the wrist with her other hand. Meg snorted, and Christine started to giggle, and behind them, tucked away among the backdrops, the Phantom smiled to himself and watched the Prima Donna storm down the hall.

"That was perfect," laughed Meg, "though she'll have poor Buquet's hide for leaving a rope lying about. The Opera Ghost loves to steal them." She paused, and then put a hand to her mouth and said loudly, "thank you!"

Christine giggled harder. Beside her, from behind the curtain, came a soft "my pleasure."

The new opera was called _Hannibal_, and it was garish and fantastic and, oddly enough, in English. Piangi in particular disapproved of this, not only because the majority of opera-goers thought English was inferior to Italian or French (though that played a significant part), but because he could not pronounce half the words to Monsieur Reyer's satisfaction.

Carlotta, on the other hand, adored the piece; she seemed to be trying to raise her voice to new heights. Neither the rest of the cast nor the Phantom appreciated this in the slightest.

"Perhaps it should be her, not me, taking lessons from you," Christine said to him after one of his many complaints.

"Oh, heaven _forbid_," he said. "I could not stand her. She'd be dead within the hour and they would have to find someone else—" he stopped, and then said, and Christine could hear his wicked smile, "perhaps I should, then. They might even cast you to replace her."

"You—you would not really kill her, would you?" Christine asked tentatively.

"Oh, certainly not," he said. "But I would if it were not for the fact that she is La Carlotta and her disappearance would be… most inconvenient for me and my opera house."

Christine decided it would be better not to comment. The questions about the Phantom grew every day: who he was, what he was doing in the Opéra de Paris, how he could move as silently and swiftly as a ghost, how he'd learned to play the violin so beautifully, why he spoke of murder with such a cavalier air… the list had become very long in the month since Christine had met him.

"Who _are _you?" she tried, not expecting an answer.

"Your teacher," he said. He was mocking her again, and she didn't like it. It must have showed, for he gave a low chuckle and said, "you are far too curious for your own good, my dear."

"And you are insufferable. It is late, and our final rehearsal for _Hannibal _is tomorrow. I am going to sleep now."

"Very well," the Phantom said. "Good luck tomorrow, _ma petite souris_…"

The dress rehearsal was not going well at all, if Christine was any judge. Monsieur Reyer was still irate over the fact that Piangi could not say "Rome" right, several stage hands had been caught drunk inside the huge papier-mâché elephant, and if Carlotta sang any shriller she was going to bring down the magnificent crystal chandelier, or at least shatter all the windows in the vicinity. They had almost finished, however, when they were interrupted by Monsieur Lefèvre, followed by two other gentlemen: a tall, thin older man and a small, jolly man with wildly curly hair who seemed quite pleased with… something. Christine couldn't fathom what. The whole affair, she felt, was rather a disaster.

Monsieur Lefèvre called for attention, and the ensemble gathered in a disorderly crowd around the three newcomers.

"I am sure you have all heard," Lefèvre began, "the rumors of my retirement. These are all, I'm afraid, true." There was a unanimous cry of disappointment. Lefèvre was well-liked – the Opera would be sorry to see him go. "This is Monsieur Andre—" the jovial man gave a sweeping bow—"and Monsieur Firmin." The taller man nodded politely. "They are your new managers." Everyone turned to stare suspiciously at the two men. Carlotta was laying it on thick for them up on center stage. Firmin looked like he couldn't wait to get away from her. (_I know the feeling_, thought Christine) Andre, on the other hand, looked smitten.

"…honor us with a private rendition?" he was asking, and Carlotta couldn't have looked more pleased.

_Uh-oh… _Carlotta being pleased was never, in Christine's experience, a good thing.

"My manager commands," Carlotta purred. "Maestro?"

"My diva commands." Reyer nodded at the orchestra. "Will two bars be sufficient?"

"Quite sufficient," said Firmin, and Andre nodded and muttered, "yes, good."

Carlotta started to sing, and Christine sighed. She'd heard this solo far too many times, and no one seemed to want to stop her after two bars. She was just wondering if there was a way to shut the woman up when there was soft silken rustling from up above.

Christine looked up just in time to see the crossbar for the backdrop come crashing down, right towards Carlotta. She only leapt away just in time, and the heavy wooden rod smashed onto the stage, trapping her dress. Had it landed on her, it might have killed her.

_But he said he wouldn't, that it would cause too many problems…! _

"He's here!" wailed little Jammes, clutching at Giselle's skirt. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

"Girls, _girls_!" Monsieur Lefèvre rushed forward, followed closely by Firmin. "Please settle down!" He attempted to regain a semblance of order while Andre went to comfort the white-faced Carlotta.

"These things… do happen," he said, laying what he apparently thought was a kindly hand on her shoulder. It was the exact wrong thing to do. Carlotta leapt to her feet and rounded on the little man.

"Zeese things do '_appen_?" she cried. "What do you know? All ze time, zeese things do 'appen! And do you stop them?" she demanded, jabbing a finger at Lefèvre, who jumped. "No! And you—" she turned back to Andre—"you are as bad as 'ee ees! 'Zeese things do 'appen'! _Sí, _zeese things do 'appen! Well, until you stop zeese things 'appening, _zis _thing does _not _'appen!"

And once again she sailed out of the theatre in a rage.

"Finally," muttered Meg.

"Well, gentlemen," said Lefèvre, who had taken on an unnatural pallor in the past few minutes, "I think you have your work cut out for you. If you need me, I shall be in Moscow. Adieu." He took up his hat and coat and left as quickly as Carlotta had.

Madame Giry appeared out of the wings and thrust a piece of paper at the two bewildered new managers.

"What's this?"

"The Opera Ghost merely wishes to welcome you to his theatre, and reminds you that his salary is due," said Giry. Christine stared at her. The woman clearly knew more about Christine's friend than she cared to let on.

"His theatre?" said Firmin.

"Salary?" said Andre.

"Monsieur Lefèvre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month," Madame Giry said. "Perhaps you can afford more with the Vicomte de Chagny as your new patron."

"I had rather hoped to make that announcement myself," said Andre, a trifle testily. The girls began to whisper excitedly amongst themselves.

"But what about the performance?" said Firmin, in the tone usually reserved for the deaf or imbecilic, "it's a full house and your star has gone!"

"We shall have to find the understudy," said Andre.

"There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" Monsieur Reyer piped up, glaring around at the stage and everyone there who had dared to interrupt his rehearsal. "The show must be canceled!"

Firmin sighed. Then Meg, sweet, dear little Meg, piped up:

"Christine Daaé can sing it, sir!"

_I am going to _kill_ her, _thought Christine, glaring at her friend. If Meg noticed the look, she ignored it.

"The chorus girl?" Firmin sounded incredulous.

"She's been taking lessons," Meg said proudly, then turned and mouthed, _haven't you_? Christine tried to motion for her to shut up without moving her head or her hands. Why did she have to be friends with this girl?

"Oh really? From whom?"

"I-I don't know," Christine said, "I've never seen his face." Firmin sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Andre just shifted from foot to foot.

"Let her sing for you, messieurs," Giry said, smiling slightly at Christine. "She has been well taught."

Firmin sighed again and beckoned to Christine. Vowing to kill the whole bloody family, she stepped forwards.

"From the beginning of the aria, then, mademoiselle," said Reyer, opening and shutting the score under her nose before she'd even had the chance to look down.

Silently thanking the Book and her lessons with the Phantom, Christine took a deep breath and began to sing.

_Think of me, think of me fondly  
When we've said goodbye…_

Madame Giry motioned for her to sing louder; Firmin leaned over to his partner and Christine heard him mutter "oh, Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

Blushing furiously, Christine spoke up, vaguely aware that the girls had stopped chattering. She was terribly nervous, and when she finished, the huge room was completely silent.

After a moment, Andre spoke up.

"I say she gets the part."

* * *

_AN// Aaaaaaand that's the end of Scrupulously!Accurate!Dialougue! Carlotta's little rant is pretty much word for word xD I'm afraid, however, that I mixed up the order of things that happen during the Hannibal rehearsal (and I refuse to watch the movie to find out. friggin Gerard Butler *utter loathing*). If someone wants to correct my mistakes, I would much appreciate it3_

_Also, OMG OPERA!_

_Lulz, it's baaaaaaaaad but it rhymes and meter so WHATNOW B*TCH?!_

_XD  
_


	5. Chapter 5

_AN// Sorry for the late. I has a busy (e.g., 2 APs, the ACT, SAT, and 2 subject tests)  
_

_If you're expecting me to work _Angel of Music _and _The Phantom of the Opera _into this, yer out of luck. Sorry guys! Only singing is the actual operatic type3_

_And, Re: Keyra – "Friggin'" is a delightful bit of slang that you won't find in a dictionary; it can be used for almost anything but in this case just means "stupid". You might try – but beware, you may find more than you bargained for ;) And I'll prob'ly post a glossary at the end when I'm finished, so check then.  
_

_Re: Mirifaery – Raoul will probably not show up enough to be much of a fop, but yes, probably. And this follows roughly the storyline if Miss Daaé fell in love with the actually _interesting _character instead…_

* * *

**Chapter Five: **In Which Christine Visits an Angel

_They're standing. My God, they're _standing.

Christine realized she was shaking and tried to calm down. Her heart was pounding, and her palms were sweaty. It was over. Her premier—_her premier was over_. She curtsied unsteadily and then stood there, clutching at her skirts, until the curtain was lowered and she felt several pairs of hands grab her by the shoulders and draw her back. She could hear someone enthusiastically crying "bravo!" from one of the boxes above the stage.

_Oh_, she thought, _the angel will be so proud of me_…

Someone – it might've been Meg – grabbed her around the waist and hauled her to an armchair, which she collapsed gratefully into. Someone else brought her a glass of water, while yet another thrust an enormous bouquet of roses into her arms. _I did it_, she kept thinking, over and over, _I really did it_…

Madame Giry appeared, wearing one of her rare smiles.

"You have done well," she said, and then added, a bit more quietly, "he will be pleased."

Christine nodded and tried to return the smile. She still felt a bit sick. She couldn't quite believe that she'd just sung a lead role to a crowd of well over a thousand without ever having done so before. _He _is _an angel! Oh, thank you, Father!_

"And you—" Giry was saying to the dancers crowded enthusiastically around them—"not so well. Go. Practice. Now." She pointed with her stick, and they all went, muttering amongst themselves. She gave Christine one last smile, and vanished after them. As soon as she was gone, Meg pounced upon the armchair.

"That was brilliant," she said. "How did you do it? You really have been taking lessons, haven't you? Who _is _he?"

"I— Father once said he'd send me an angel when he died— I didn't think he actually would—"

Meg gave Christine a blank look.

"Are you sure you were not dreaming?"

"Quite sure…" Christine trailed off and rose from the armchair. She swayed once, but kept her balance, and began wandering down the halls, not quite sure what she was looking for. Rose petals trailed in her wake, as did a rather concerned Meg. She reached her room and stopped, staring around as if seeing it for the first time. After a moment, she went and laid the roses on the dressing-table.

_Bam._ "Meg Giry!"

Christine and Meg both whirled around to find Madame Giry standing in the dressing-chamber door, one hand on her hip and the other holding her stick aloft as if preparing to strike someone with it. "Are you a dancer?"

Meg nodded silently. Giry gave her a stern look. "Then why aren't you dancing? Go and practice."

Meg left, mumbling as she did, "rehearsals, always rehearsals."

"I was asked," Madame Giry said, "to give you this." She held out a small piece of creamy paper, which Christine took from her. Was it from the Phantom? Of all the people for him to give notes to, Giry seemed the most likely, and Meg had said…

There were only seven words written upon this paper, in a neat, bold hand:

_A red scarf_

_The attic_

_Little Lotte_

Christine stared blankly for a moment, and then her heart gave a great sort of bound. It couldn't be. And then she remembered, just briefly, a helping hand and a smiling, familiar face. _It was— he's—_ No. No, it just wasn't possible. Christine lifted her head to ask Madame Giry what it meant, but she had gone.

Just then there was a chatter of men's voices, and a laugh, and then she heard a voice say, "Gentlemen. This is one visit I would prefer to make _un_accompanied," and the door swung open. Christine turned round to see the Vicomte, holding a bottle of wine and looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Why aren't you wearing your scarf?" he said, and Christine opened her mouth to say something, but only a squeak came out. "After all that trouble I went through. Soaked to the bone, I was—"

"—because you'd run into the sea to fetch it! Oh, Raoul, it _is _you!" Christine leapt up, nearly knocking over the stool in her haste, and ran to hug her old friend. She hadn't seen him for close to seven years, but it was unmistakably him.

"It has been far too long," he said, holding her out and looking her up and down. "The last time I saw you, I was fourteen, do you remember? The picnics we'd have—"

"Father's violin." Christine smiled wistfully. "Yes. And the angel of music—" she broke off and looked up at him, remembering. "Raoul— father said when he was dead he'd send me the angel of music. Well, father is dead, and I have been visited by the angel!"

"Oh, there's no doubt of that," said Raoul, his smile widening, "but right now, we must go to dinner."

Christine sighed.

"No, Raoul, you don't understand, he's, I have to see him, I can't—" the Vicomte put his finger to Christine's lips, shushing her.

"You need to change, and I must go get my hat. Two minutes, nothing more… little lotte."

And he was gone. Christine hurried after him to stare out the door just as Raoul vanished around a corner.

"Wait!"

It was no use. He either hadn't heard her, or didn't care. Christine withdrew into her room again, shutting and locking the door. Almost as soon as she had done so, the Phantom entered, and she could feel his displeasure before he even spoke.

"Hah! That insolent, foolish _boy_— he _dares_—!"

Christine turned, though she knew well enough by know that she would not see him.

"I'm sorry," she said, not quite certain what she was apologizing for, "I'm _sorry_, Angel. He is an old friend, that's all. I didn't mean—" she stopped.

"Angel," said the Phantom, as if he was not sure he had heard her properly, "angel. Well then. I'm here, I'm here! Come! Is this what you were expecting? Your _angel of music_!"

Christine whirled around and stared in surprise, for her mirror was lit up with a strange silvery light, and behind it…

No, he wasn't what she'd expected at all, though what she wasn't quite sure what she _had _been expecting: he was tall, and thin, in a fine suit and tailcoat and the black velvet evening cape, and half his face hidden by a white satin mask.

Then, before Christine could react, the pane of the mirror swung wide and the man—the Angel— the Phantom— reached out and clasped her wrist and pulled her to him, swinging the mirror-door shut as he did so. The silver glow, Christine now saw, came from a lantern resting on a ragged stone jutting from the rough wall, its light distorted by the mirror's reflective surface.

There was a crash from the room, a cry of, "Christine!" and then the Phantom's cold fingers tightened around Christine's wrist and he whisked her away from the room and the bewildered Vicomte and the Opéra de Paris.

Darkness closed around them, kept only partially at bay by the Phantom's lantern. Christine had to run to keep up with his long stride, and then the blackness around them grew colder and she realized they were in, or above, a huge open space.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

He turned, eyes glinting in the dim light.

"To Heaven," he said gravely, "or to Hell. You may take your pick."

"I do not understand."

The Phantom smiled for the first time, and Christine felt an illogical sense of calm. He really was handsome, for a man with half a face.

"You will," he said, and continued on, pulling Christine in his wake. He moved so quickly and gracefully, and the darkness was so thick around their bubble of light, that Christine could almost believe they were flying, that the Phantom's velvet cape was a set of wings, and that he once again truly was the angel from her childhood dreams.

Then a light blossomed below them, and candles appeared out of the gloom, illuminating a cavern full of mist.

"_Mère de Dieu…_"

It was a lake. There was a lake, underneath the Opera House. Christine stopped, tugging her hand from the Phantom's, and gazed at the dark water. As she watched, the lake's surface rose slightly, and there was a great rattling boom somewhere off in the shadows where the candles didn't reach.

"Ballast for the stage," the Phantom said, and stepped out onto the water. Christine stared, and then the mist swirled and parted and she laughed at herself, for he had only stepped into a low wooden boat. He turned back towards her and offered his hand. Christine smiled and took it, and he lifted her down to stand beside him. Then he took up a long rod, or staff, that had been lying in the bottom of the little vessel, and shoved off from the shore.

For a moment Christine and the Phantom drifted in silence, him poling them along the ballast-lake like a Venetian gondolier, her gawking around at the candles and the mist, marveling at how surreal everything had become.

Then the little boat scraped ashore on the opposite side of the lake, and the Phantom stepped out, turning to help Christine onto the wet rocks. She didn't actually need the assistance, but it was quite flattering, really.

He led her up the stony bank to a small flat area surrounded by candelabras. There was something large off to one side, covered with a heavy broadcloth, a table scattered with books, quills, and inkpots, and even a huge old pipe organ. How the Phantom had managed to get _that _under the Opera House, Christine couldn't imagine. A curtain hung from an outcrop of rock, hiding about a quarter of the flat space from view.

"You live down here?"

The Phantom smiled wryly.

"Well, I have come to find that society is rather… averse to me. It is better down here. This is my opera, after all."

"'Yours'?" Christine tried and failed to hide her smile.

"Of course," he said. "Monsieur Lefèvre knew that, if those two new idiots don't."

This time Christine had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. As with all things, the Phantom was perfectly serious.

"So… what exactly am I doing here?"

"I'm congratulating you for your spectacular gala, of course, _ma petite souris._"

Now Christine didn't even bother to hide her smile. She hadn't heard that in a while.

"Why thank you, my dear Monsieur…" she trailed off. "You still have not told me your name."

He looked at her, eyes glittering in the candlelight.

"It doesn't matter," he said after a moment. "Aren't I your angel? Is that not enough?"

"Quite enough," Christine said, and then added, "for now." The Phantom smiled and once again offered his hand. Christine took it, and he strode over to the great covered object at the edge of the light. He stared at it for a few moments with an expression bordering on deranged.

"Are… are you well?" she ventured, when he did not speak.

"Yes," he said, so softly Christine was at first unsure if she had heard him, "yes, I believe I am quite well. That is—" he paused, and turned to look at her, that mad look still in his eyes— "if you will always sing for me like you did tonight."

Christine stared up at him, and thought perhaps she understood, and smiled at him, and said, "of course."

He turned then, and pulled the broadcloth away, revealing a high glass-front cabinet – or at least, formerly glass-front, for the glass was all shattered away and in its place was…

"Me," Christine said.

It wasn't her. It was a doll, or a marionette, perfectly poised, hands clasped, auburn curls shielded by a veil. The detail was minute.

"_Elle est parfaite_…" Christine reached out to touch the smiling lips, and then the marionette sprung forwards, arms reaching for her, and Christine cried out and jumped back, more out of surprise than anything else. She teetered for a moment, and then her feet slipped on the wet rock and she tumbled backwards, cracking her head on the cold, hard floor, and after that…

* * *

"_Merde, la tête…_"Christine moaned and forced her eyes open. Everything was fuzzy, and the back of her head throbbed. She sat up and waited for her mind to clear before looking around. She was curled up in a box, or something, lined with silk, underneath a heavy velvet evening cloak. _Again_?

Last night came back to her suddenly, and she sighed and put her head in her hands. She'd absconded with the Phantom, of course, but poor Raoul would be in a fit, he wouldn't know what had happened.

Surprisingly (and perhaps distressingly) enough, Christine couldn't really bring herself to care about Raoul, especially with that loud music. It must have been what woke her, she thought, and, after a moment, managed to lever herself to her feet. Her sides ached, and she swayed once before catching her breath. She'd gone to sleep – or passed out – in her corset. Probably not the best thing for her health, and there would be weird lines all on her skin when she took it off.

Still feeling a bit muzzy, Christine stepped out of the box-bed (it was an oddly familiar shape, but her unconsciousness-addled brain couldn't really focus on that) and brushed past the curtain.

The Phantom was playing the pipe organ with a sort of grim determination. He didn't seem to notice her.

_I wonder_, Christine thought to herself, and tiptoed over to him. _Why does he wear that silk mask_?

She hovered over his shoulder until he came to a break in his music – she really had to marvel at his skill; could he play _everything _so beautifully? – and then, in an act of daring she would never have thought herself capable of, pulled off the mask.

Underneath, the Phantom's face was pitted and ridged with heavy, angry red scars.

It took him a moment to register that something was wrong, and then he whirled around with a look of pure fury on his face and struck her with the back of his hand, crying, _"damn you!_"

Christine stumbled, clapping a hand to her stinging cheek, and crab-crawled across the ground until she was out of the range of his fury. Her other hand still clutched the Phantom's mask.

_He _was having quite a hissy fit, glaring at her out of his one good eye and hiding the scarred half of his face with his hands. Christine watched in silence, torn between being amused and being terrified. She knew he had sudden changes in mood, but she'd never seen him get this angry before. But he really was quite distraught— finished cursing at her, the Phantom collapsed in a heap, making a piteous sort of noise as he did so.

He'd hit her— but then, that beautiful white dress and long white veil—

Christine slunk over to him. He was still hunched on the ground, whispering to himself: "_Christine… Christine_…" over and over again. She was once again torn between terrified and flattered, and after a moment's hesitation, decided to go with flattered.

She crouched down and offered him back his mask.

The Phantom looked up just enough to see her smiling at him, as gently as she could manage. Then he snatched the piece of stiff cloth from her and turned away, pressing it back to hide his scars. This done, he stood, and grabbed her arm.

"Come," he said, "we must return. Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."

Somewhat more roughly than Christine thought was strictly necessary, he led the way back across the lake and towards the light of day.


	6. Chapter 6

_AN// YAY digression from musical! _

_Thanks to everyone for all the great reviews, and remember the warm and happy feelings that you guys get when someone gives _you_ a good review!_

_Also (this will become clear in the chapter) in case anyone didn't know, the French customary greeting between girls or between a guy and a girl is a kiss on the cheek – it's not a romantic thing – don't get excited ;) _

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Six:** In Which There is Nothing to Forgive

The entire staff of the Opera House was in a frenzy. La Carlotta was once again threatening to leave and never come back, the managers were each angry over something or other, the Vicomte was running around shaking innocent bystanders and demanding they tell him where Miss Daaé was, and the book for the newest opera had just arrived.

At least, that was what Meg told Christine from the foot of Christine's bed at l'Hôtel d'Or, in a very animated manner. Christine was sprawled on the other end of the bed, surrounded by pillows. She'd been put there forcibly by Madame Giry after arriving in the foyer of the Opera House wearing last night's gala dress and a bewildered expression.

Christine did not want to be confined to bed rest at all, but she was not going to argue with Madame Giry.

"_Mademoiselle_." A maid poked her head into Christine's room. "_Il y a un monsieur ici pour vous voir. Devrais-je lui en montrer_?"

Christine and Meg exchanged glances.

"It is probably Raoul," Meg said. "He has been in quite a state all morning."

"_Oui, s'il te plaît__,_" Christine said, and the maid scurried off. Christine turned back to Meg with a sigh. "It's quite sweet that he has been worried about me," she said, "but really, there is nothing for him to be worried _about_."

"I'll be the judge of that." Raoul was standing in the door with his hat under his arm, looking relieved. "My newest star disappears right from under my very nose and has the gall to tell me I mustn't worry! Really, what is this world coming to?"

"It's wonderful to have you back, Raoul," Christine said, standing to kiss his cheek in greeting, "truly! But you always were one for worrying."

"Nonsense! _You _were just one for getting into worrisome situations."

"Guilty as charged." Christine smiled wryly at her old friend. "Would you like some tea?"

"God, yes," he said. "Those theatre people are all… insufferable. Present company excluded, of course," he added, tipping his hat to Meg.

Meg went red.

"Not you _too_," moaned Christine, glaring at Meg over her shoulder as she took down the teapot.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Meg said stiffly, flipping her hair over her shoulder and sending the feather in her hat bobbing wildly. Christine giggled.

"Well," she said, "you could do worse."

"And _you_ could do better. I know what you have been—"

"Meg Giry, you finish that sentence and I shall set my music teacher on you."

Meg made a show of looking horrified, and then fainting onto the bed.

"Ah," said Raoul, setting down opposite the fallen blonde, "I had quite forgotten how refreshing, and thoroughly confusing, the company of young girls could be."

Christine handed him a bone-china cup of tea.

"I shall be eighteen in one week, and a grown woman," she chided, smiling at him. Meg opened one eye but did not shift from where she lay.

"An old spinster, more likely," she muttered. "When are you going to marry her, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Raoul sprayed tea all over the duvet.

"Honestly," said Christine, running to fetch a towel, "you two shall be the death of me."

"Oh?" Meg arched an eyebrow and failed to hide her grin. "You're looking considerably less pale than you were several minutes ago. I'd say you rather enjoyed the Vicomte and my company."

"Of course," Christine replied, placing the towel over the tea stain and handing Meg a cup of tea. "Did I say it would be a painful death?"

Raoul stared at her with an expression that Meg recognized instantly (though Christine utterly failed to, the lucky vixen). "Anyways, Monsieur, there was nothing wrong at all. As you utterly failed to comprehend last night, I was… previously engaged and could _not _come to dinner with you. Tonight, however, I would be more than happy to oblige."

Christine finished mopping up the tea and turned to smile at the Vicomte, who gave her a broad grin in reply.

"I'll hold you to it at nine o' clock, after the performance," he said.

"I look forward to it," Christine said, curtseying over Raoul's proffered hand.

It was only after he and Meg had left that she realized that the Phantom would not be happy with this arrangement at all.

* * *

The first thing Messieurs Andre and Firmin did when Christine arrived at the Opera House was inform her that La Carlotta had returned to sing the Countess in _Il Muto_, and therefore _Hannibal _would be Christine's last leading role.

Christine was dumbfounded. They were the ones making such a big fuss over her, and now, after all the hard work her Phantom had done to get her here, they had the gall to tell her to hang up her crown? She didn't know whether she should be dejected, or just plain insulted.

She settled for insulted, and after telling the managers in a huff that that was all right and dandy with _them_, but _she _was not happy, she stalked as best she could down the auditorium to a very special door in the bottom of the stage.

After only a minute or so of wandering around in the tunnels, Christine was thoroughly lost.

"_Merde_," she muttered, and turned to try and find her way back the way she came.

"Leaving so soon?"

"_Mon cher ange_!" Christine sighed with relief and turned to face him. She could barely see the Phantom in the gloom, but she was used to that, and she could feel him smiling at her. Abandoning all thoughts of decorum, decency, and propriety, and probably sending her poor mother spinning in her grave, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "Oh, I am so sorry," she cried. "Please do not be angry with me!"

The Phantom, for his part, seemed unable to respond. He just sort of stood there until Christine released him, blushing, and made a show of straightening her skirts so she wouldn't have to look at him.

"Sorry?" he said, after a moment. "My dear, you have nothing to apologize for. But why don't you _flee _me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The Phantom moved his hand, perhaps unconsciously, to run his fingers across his mask. "Oh…" Christine smiled at him, and reached up to place her hand on his. "It does not matter. You are my angel, and I am your friend, and, between friends, I think the mask is _very _dashing."

"You…" The Phantom gently lifted her hand away. "You are the strangest girl I have ever met, _ma petite souris_."

Christine smiled at him, and then remembered.

"Oh, no," she said. "I have to go— the performance— and, Angel… the Vicomte has invited me to dinner tonight, and I cannot say no."

The Phantom's eyes narrowed.

"Christine…"

"Please, Angel. He is our patron, he is important, and he might be able to get me another part if I play nicely to him."

"But you sing for _me_!" The Phantom would have sounded like a petulant child had he not looked so angry.

"Always," Christine promised, "and I always have. But, Angel, if I cannot sing here—"

"Don't you worry," he said, and now he smiled, "I have a plan. You'll sing again, _ma petite souris_, have no fear of that."

"_Angel_…"

He sighed.

"All right," he said, sounding thoroughly displeased with the entire idea, "you may go to dinner with Monsieur le Vicomte tonight after the performance."

"Thank you, Angel," Christine said. "Though it might be useful if you would tell me your real name?"

His smile returned.

"All in good time, my dear," he said.

"You are infuriating, Monsieur," Christine replied, grinning at him, "and truly, thank you." She stood on tiptoes to kiss him good-bye – he was very tall, she hadn't really noticed before – and turned to run back up the corridor with a rustling of skirts.

Had she looked back, she might have seen the Phantom staring after her, one hand pressed to his cheek and a dazed expression on his pale half-face.

* * *

"So who is this teacher that you and Meg made such sly references to? I should much like to thank him for your spectacular performance."

Christine choked on her forkful of lamb and had to gulp down a glass of water in a most unladylike fashion. Raoul arched an eyebrow. "Is he truly that terrifying?"

"He's…" Christine searched for the right word. "Different."

"And different is…?"

"He's wonderful, Raoul, he's strange and sad but ever so kind, even if he does like to make trouble."

"Trouble? How so?"

"Well." Christine blushed, trying to think of a way to explain the Opera Ghost without giving him away. "When he doesn't like someone he'll find all sorts of clever little ways at getting back at them. He'll set up ropes for them to trip over, like. Usually it only happens to Carlotta. She deserves it."

"Now, Christine, don't be cheeky. I'm sure she's a perfectly nice girl."

"Perfectly _horrid_, maybe," Christine replied, thinking, _cheeky? _Really_? _Much to her relief, Raoul laughed.

"Well. She does seem like quite the diva."

They'd gotten onto Christine's favorite subject now. She could not wait to complain all over Raoul.

"Oh, you've no idea how awful she is. The managers had to _bribe _her to get her to sing the lead in _Il Muto _instead of me, when she has been _dying _for such a glamorous role for all of a month!"

"Instead of you?" Raoul looked genuinely disturbed by this news.

_Oh, Christine, you clever girl, you_.

"Oh, yes," she said, relishing the opportunity to butter her old friend up, "and after all the hard work Monsieur has been putting me through! It's quite a nerve Andre and Firmin have, really."

"I shall have to speak to them about it," said Raoul, all seriousness, and then they were interrupted by a dashing young gentleman in a tailcoat and impeccable cravat getting up from his table to stand by them.

"_Perdonnez-moi_," he said. Then, after a brief pause, "Miss Daaé. I saw you tonight. Spectacular." He held out his hand; completely bewildered, Christine gave him hers and allowed him to kiss it. When he'd gone back to his own table, Christine leaned across to the Vicomte and demanded in a whisper,

"_What was that about_?"

"Apparently you are famous."

Christine was now utterly thunderstruck.

"I—"

Then her face broke out into a broad grin. Wait until Carlotta and Meg found out…! And the Angel! He would be so proud of her.

Christine finished her meal, feeling more cheerful by the minute.

* * *

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Monsieur."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Daaé."

Raoul helped Christine down from the cab onto the front step of l'Hôtel d'Or. She thought briefly and suddenly of a certain scar-faced gentleman, reaching up with pale hands to help her off a rocky embankment…

She shook her head sharply. _No, Mademoiselle_. Certainly not.

And yet…

Raoul offered his arm, which Christine took, and led her up to her chambers. Then he doffed his hat to her with a smile and said quietly, "good night… little Lotte."

* * *

_AN// The next chapter is the famed production of Il Muto, and the structural failure that accompanies it... Expect Phanservice :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_AN//And now, the moment you've all been waiting for… _

_Also, let's play Spot the Reference… this one's eeeeeasy xP_

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**Chapter Seven: **In Which One Disaster is Averted in Favor of Another

"You're in love."

"Aah!" Christine jumped as Meg's face appeared over her shoulder, wearing an insufferable smirk.

"And don't try to deny it, either."

"All right," said Christine, giving in early rather than allow herself a lifetime of nagging, "I won't."

Meg stared at her.

"I'm speechless."

Christine just smiled. After a moment, Meg said, "well, he's a very lucky man, anyways, but Sorelli's going to skin you alive."

Christine looked up at Meg, who was still smiling wryly, thought about defending herself, and thought better of it.

"Well," she said, "I could do worse."

"True." Meg laughed. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"It is not a _secret_," Christine protested, "I just don't want certain people _gossiping _all over everywhere."

"My lips are sealed," Meg said, and flounced away, looking very pleased with herself. "Oh, the lucky Vicomte!"

Christine didn't have the heart to tell her.

* * *

It was with a vague air of foreboding that Christine took to the stage on the opening night of _Il Muto_. Her role was silent, and easy – all she had to do was sit and look like a man, which couldn't be _that _hard since she didn't even have any chest to speak of – so it wasn't nerves. But the Phantom had said he'd a plan for if Andre and Firmin did not let her sing. Based on his previous dark moods, she was not sure she wanted to know what it was.

And— then there was the fact that Raoul, the bloody fool, had sat himself down in the Phantom's box. The Phantom had made it quite clear that Box Five was _his _many times… so what was the idiotic Vicomte up to now?

Shaking her head, Christine resumed pacing behind the curtains.

Then Giry hissed at her to calm down, and the orchestra started, and Christine withdrew into the wings.

Christine didn't much like playing kissing with Carlotta, especially since every time her face was hidden, Carlotta put on a particularly repugnant smirk. But they waltzed around the stage nonetheless while the audience laughed – _fancy that, an opera where nobody dies _– each of them thoroughly disliking the company of the other.

There was a loud and sudden hissing, or humming, or something, and the electric lights above the stage began to flicker and flare. One of them burst, showering glass down upon several extras.

"_Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be left empty_?"

Raoul cried out and leapt from his seat, but the Phantom was already gone. Carlotta glared at him for daring to let anything interrupt her performance, and then started over. She had just begun to sing again when:

_Poor fool, he makes me la—_huuek!

_A—_huuek!

Christine bit her lip hard to keep herself from giggling. The Phantom's plan in action, she supposed. It was quite clear that Carlotta could not continue, and had to sit down. Backstage, Monsieur Firmin was gesturing furiously at Joseph Buquet to reel the curtain down, and then he pushed through and Christine heard him say to the audience, "ladies and gentlemen, the show will resume in ten minutes' time, with the role of the Countess being played by Mademoiselle Christine Daaé…"

Smiling to herself, Christine rushed backstage to get changed.

However, there seemed to be a problem. The chorus girls kept screaming, and when Christine ran to see what was the matter, she found the Phantom amusing himself by dancing about in front of the backstage light, making his shadow flicker across the backdrop and scaring the poor ballerinas who were attempting to dance in the interlude.

Christine stalked up behind him, wearing the Countess' flowing lavender skirt and the pageboy's peasant blouse, and whacked him over the head with her fan.

"Stop that!"

"Ow! Christine—? That hurt!"

Christine grinned at him.

"Do not terrorize the chorus girls. They don't deserve it."

He grumbled, then relented.

"Yes. Sorry."

"Well. At least someone is in a good mood. That was brilliant, by the way. How did you do it?"

"Trade secret," the Phantom said, winking his good eye. Christine giggled.

"Well. Thank you, Angel." She patted him on the shoulder and brushed back towards the changing room, still grinning.

The Phantom turned to hide again amongst the curtains – and found his way blocked by that drunkard Buquet, who was staring at him with wide, clear eyes.

_Damn_, he thought. The one time he'd been caught, the stupid technician had to be sober.

Buquet turned and ran off, or rather, shuffled quickly off. There was nothing for it.

The Phantom's hand closed around a length of rope folded inside his cloak, and he followed.

* * *

Christine sat impatiently while little Jammes attached the high white wig to her head. The ten minutes were almost up – she should be back onstage – "there," said Jammes, "that's you finished."

"Thank you." Christine stood, and Jammes ran off. A moment later, there was a rattle, a _whoosh_, and a blood-curdling scream.

Christine started. That had been Jammes. Wondering what in blazes could have gone wrong, she ran towards the stage.

Jammes was screaming still, huddled in a corner, white-faced. The curtains were down, and Monsieur Andre was outside them, shouting to a whispering audience, "ladies and gentlemen, remain in your seats— please— it was an accident— simply an accident—"

And, center stage, but at least six feet above the ground, hung the twitching corpse of Joseph Buquet.

Christine gulped and staggered towards the end of the stage. His face – that white face—

That combined with the Countess' heavy skirts and incredibly tight corset, it was becoming very hard for Christine to breathe.

"Christine!"

She looked up into the stricken face of the Vicomte, who rushed towards her and grabbed her shoulders. She clutched at the front of his shirt, gasping.

"Oh, Raoul— h-he's _dead_—"

"Come on." Raoul half-led, half dragged Christine towards a flight of narrow stairs: the roof.

Up in the cold air, Christine instantly felt much better. She could breathe again, though she could hardly believe what had just happened. Joseph Buquet had always said – and he was so good with ropes, and tripping people – but she could not, would not accept that her Phantom might be a murderer.

"God—"

"What's going on?" Raoul demanded.

"The Phantom—" Christine could only speak in short bursts. He'd killed Buquet. "He _killed—Buquet_!"

"The ghost that all the chorus girls are obsessed with? Christine, that's a myth! It must have been an accident, surely, you must go back."

"No! Raoul, he's real, I know he is, I've _seen _him! He's—" She stopped. No, she wouldn't, she wouldn't tell him. She'd said too much already. Her hands stopped shaking. Her panic faded. She would not let them find the Phantom, ever.

"Christine…" Raoul took her face in his hands and turned her towards him. "I'm here for you."

And he bent down and kissed her.

For a moment Christine didn't know what to do. When she realized what was happening, she grabbed at the front of Raoul's shirt, trying to push him away, but that only made him kiss her harder.

Finally he let her go, and Christine stared up into his face, gasping once again for breath. He was smiling gently down at her, and Christine realized something. Here was a man who would give her everything, and if she went with him, he would marry her and they'd live together in his country estate and have two children – a boy first, and then a girl – and she would be Vicomtesse and have everything she ever wanted, and one day she might even wake up and realize that she loved him too.

"Oh, Raoul—"

"Don't worry. Nothing will happen to you while I'm with you."

Christine realized all that... and something else, as well.

"_No_," she said."It is not that. It's—I—I can't."

The smile slipped.

"You…"

"This is all happening so _fast_—"

"Is it someone else? At least tell me that much, Christine, I _love _you—"

"I—" Christine sighed, and then, quick as she could, jerked her hands from Raoul's. Before he could react, she was away, scrabbling over the rough surface of the roof, not knowing where she was going, not caring, either…

A cold hand grabbed her wrist, and she fell, but before she could cry out, another hand clapped over her mouth. A face appeared above her, but only half of it was skin, and the other half was bare, white bone.

Then the world resolved itself, and Christine sighed and ceased to struggle against the Phantom's hands.

He hauled her roughly to her feet.

"Is this what you meant by '_I have a plan_'? You _killing _someone?" she demanded as soon as she was upright, inches away from slapping him.

"He—he saw, Christine, I did not mean, he saw us, he would have told…"

"You should have let him! No one ever believes Buquet about anything! He's drunk so often that nobody cares! I—_agh!_"

Christine turned away and counted to ten under her breath, but she quickly found her anger draining into horror. Not fear – she was not afraid of the Phantom, as odd as that was, but…

"Who is it?"

"What?" snapped Christine, broken out of her reverie.

"I saw what happened between you and the Vicomte. Who is it? Someone _else_. Who is he?"

Christine caught the mad expression in the Phantom's glittering eyes and almost laughed.

_A murderer, _she nearly said, and as soon as she thought that, her blood went cold again. _Oh, my God, I'm in love with a… _murderer. _I…_

"I don't know his name," she managed to whisper, sinking to her knees, suddenly very cold up here in the winter air. "He hasn't ever told me."

"How can you love someone whose name you do not know?" he spat. Christine swallowed. She should run away, back to safety. But she did not want to. She did not care.

"I don't know, but I do," she said. "I love him even though I don't know his name, and even though he thinks he's hideous when he's not, and even though he _killed _someone—" she staggered to her feet and rounded on the Phantom. "What's your name?" she demanded, and he blinked once or twice at her harsh tone and wild eyes before stammering,

"E-Erik—" and then Christine smiled and thought, _oh, hell_, and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Whatever Erik had been expecting, it certainly wasn't _this_, and for a moment it was all he could do to stay conscious until Christine released him.

"But you have to promise not to kill people anymore, all right?"

Erik said something exceedingly eloquent that sounded like "uh duh."

Christine looked at his expression, and suddenly went bright red.

"I haven't done anything wrong, have I?"

The Phantom seemed to regain some of his senses.

"Certainly not," he said, and Christine laughed with relief, for the smile was back in his soft voice, and he sounded just the same as he had when they'd first met: quiet and elegant and amused. "No, certainly not. However—" he paused, and looked away. "I have not exactly ever…"

Christine laughed harder.

"That's the _least _of our problems! The first is Buquet… oh, you _are_ an idiot, you know that?" She sighed. "I have to go. They will be worrying about me. Wait—" she smiled gently at him—"Erik."

He smiled back at her, and she laughed more, and then took his hands and stretched up to kiss him again. "And do try not to bring the Opera House crashing down around us, at least until the performance is over."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Erik said, and stood there on the roof, smiling, until long after Christine had gone back down.

* * *

_AN// All together nao… aaaaaaaaaawww…_

_Hah, everything would have been so much better if Christine had just stuck around to explain herself to Erik… and now look! Messrs. Andre and Firmin are saved the cost of buying a new chandelier! Isn't that nice?_

_And remember, reviews make for feeling warm and fuzzy inside…_


	8. Entr'Acte

_AN// Short chapter here. Sorry y'all. Keep your eyes peeled for a Masquerade, however…_

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**Chapter Eight: **Entr'acte

When the curtain finally fell on the night's (completely disastrous, in Christine's opinion) production of _Il Muto_, Christine felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was over, at least for tonight – though she had the feeling that M.s Andre and Firmin would lose a lot of money over this whole affair.

Her spirits were lifted somewhat by the sight of Monsieur Andre pacing the halls backstage, saying to Firmin, "it's a terrible thing, Armand, but perhaps this accident will give us a chance to get a _competent _technician", and then by Madame Giry appearing out of nowhere bearing an enormous bouquet of wine-red roses, placing them in Christine's arms, and saying with a grave smile, "no one has even thought of him, and I am not one for finger-pointing."

However reassuring – should it have been reassuring? Should Christine not have wished the man come to justice? – these events were, by the time Christine got to her dressing-room, she was exhausted. She bumped the door open with her hip and was ready to collapse onto her armchair and sleep for a hundred years when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

"Where _have _you been? I searched all over for you and by the time I gave up you were back onstage as if nothing had happened!"

It was, of course, Raoul. Christine sighed and turned to him.

"Oh, Raoul. I'm so sorry. I just – I cannot deal with this right now, all right? You have been my best friend for many years, and you always will be, but that's _all _I can promise you. You must accept that."

Raoul didn't look happy about this in the slightest, but he relented.

"Very well. If you ever have a change of mind... I shall be waiting," he said softly. "Those are beautiful roses. You did very well in the face of such a terrible accident. Good night, Miss Daaé."

Christine watched him slowly walk away, head down, and then sighed again. He was a good man, the kind any woman should dream of marrying, but he was…

_Boring_.

That was the sad truth of it. Erik was just so much more interesting.

Oh, God, Erik. Prone to abrupt changes in mood, unpredictable, and now proven capable of killing someone, and that _face_—but then, he wouldn't be Erik without his board-and-silk mask and mad dark eyes. And, Christine realized, she had been waiting for him for her entire life. Ever since she was little and her father promised her the Angel of Music. Erik was so kind to her, and he'd given her everything she'd dreamed of, and she found her mind once again drifting to that doll in the caverns, with Christine's face and a white dress and veil.

Lost in her reverie, Christine placed the bouquet of roses – how had he gotten so many, and so _fast_? – in a vase and collapsed into her armchair in the corner, not noticing the figure that melted out of the shadows until he was standing right over her.

"I'm waiting," he said. Christine blinked up at him. It took her a moment. Then she smiled.

"Erik." She reached up to touch his shoulder, and he flinched, then laughed mirthlessly and glanced away.

"Look at me," he muttered. "I'm pathetic."

Christine tightened her hand on his collar.

"No," she said. "You're not." She pulled herself to her feet and stood staring into his face. Then, quite suddenly, she laughed.

"What is so amusing?"

"Nothing," Christine said. "I'm just happy."

Erik shook his head in disbelief.

"For the love of God—_why_?"

"I don't know," said Christine simply, shrugging. She took his hands and grinned at him. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"I can give you a hundred reasons, for one—" but Erik was cut off by Christine stretching up and kissing him.

"I don't want to hear them."

Erik stared at her for a moment, and then said, "Christine, my dear, I don't think you thoroughly understand what you are getting yourself into."

"Well," she said, "don't they say that ignorance is bliss?"

He laughed for real then, and this time, when Christine kissed him, Erik kissed her back.

* * *

_AN// God I'm bad at writing romance _ It's my first time, forgive me._


	9. Chapter 9

_AN/ Two refs here from the SAME THING! (Here's a hint: if Erik's seemed a little bit too… shy… these past two chapters, blame Walter Plinge)_

_And SORRY for the late! I have no excuse :(_

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**Chapter Nine: **In Which We Attend a Masquerade

"You look beautiful."

"And you, positively dreadful." Christine smiled as she stared into the mirror. She couldn't believe the reflection was really _her_, with those flowing silk skirts and that circlet of pearls. She supposed the fancy dress was just one of the benefits of being the plaything of a rich madman—

No, he wasn't mad, was he. Rich people couldn't be mad, only eccentric. And Erik didn't treat her like a toy, not _really_, now that the "let-Christine-sing-or-I'll-Punjab-the-lot-of-you" phase was past.

Erik came up behind her, placing his hands on her waist. He really was a phantom in his scarlet cape and Death's-head mask, which hid the whole upper half of his face, leaving only his mouth visible. A thin line of scar ran from beneath the mask's teeth, twitching Erik's lip into a perpetual sneer that only vanished when he smiled.

Christine leaned into him, white dress rustling. It was a very daring thing they were about to do, but nobody in the daylight world knew that Christine's rich fiancé Monsieur Claudin was, in fact, the Opera House's own Phantom.

Above ground, a clock chimed eleven-thirty.

* * *

The Opéra de Paris was dark and deserted. A cold wind blew the barest dusting of snow across the forsaken courtyard. The shuttered windows rattled gently in their frames. The very silence seemed to hold its breath expectantly.

It was New Years' Eve.

Somewhere nearby, the clock chimed a quarter to twelve.

* * *

Christine sat in front of the grand mirror and tied a swan-feather mask over her eyes. Erik was singing to himself as he bound a heavy leather book in red satin.

Up above, the clock did not chime. It was two minutes to midnight.

Inside the vast flickering halls of the Opéra de Paris, Messieurs Andre and Firmin walked back to back, capes swishing, costumes a-glitter, each one with a similar expression of nervousness on his face. It was too good to be true, that the O.G. was gone. They'd seen neither hide nor hair of him since the disastrous production of _Il Muto _six months ago, but that didn't mean anything.

What if he was biding his time, waiting to strike? A masquerade would definitely be suitably operatic for a grand reentrance.

Andre turned another corner, holding his breath…

* * *

The cavernous lake below the Opera House was empty. The flames of the candles held steady in the cold, still air. There was no sign of Odette, or of the Red Death.

Up above, the clock struck midnight.

* * *

In the courtyard of the Opera House, a crowd had gathered. At the sounding of the hour, they as one drew in a deep breath. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, in an upstairs corner, far off at the rear of the Opera House, a shutter was pulled back—light blossomed in a window. Another followed it, and another, and then, with a clatter and an unbelievable amount of coordination from the Opera's ballet corps, all the shutters at once swung wide, throwing light onto the assembled crowd.

There was an appreciative round of applause.

The huge double doors of the Opéra de Paris were then flung open, spilling more light onto the courtyard, and a figure in a cape and a feathery hat bowed all the rich clients and the famous performers and those lucky enough to procure tickets into the New Year's Ball.

They hustled in with a cheer, and none of them noticed the two figures that slipped from the shadows and joined with the crowd as if they had been there all along.

The foyer was filled with candles and electric lamps. A huge Christmas tree stood next to the balustrade of the grand staircase, bedecked with garlands. Since the Opera had been closed for that holiday, it appeared Andre and Firmin were attempting to celebrate it a few days late.

Erik glanced around, then winked at Christine beneath his mask and slipped over to the tree, placing his satin-wrapped book beneath it. There was a note pinned to the binding, Christine noticed:

_Yours Truly, O.G._

She looked over her shoulder, but no-one had noticed. Everybody was all too busy mingling, or searching the faces of the crowd nervously. Even six months later the Phantom of the Opera had not quite left the minds of the theatre.

There was a huge host for the New Year's ball. Everyone was in costume. A jester drank champagne with a fairy so garishly dressed it could only be Carlotta under the mask; a soldier waltzed with a monkey covered from head to toe to tail in golden fur.

A maid appeared out of the crowd and turned into Meg.

"Hello," she said breathlessly, "it's a lovely party. Oh, who is this?" She smiled up at Erik.

"Mademoiselle Giry," said Christine, grinning, "I'd like you to meet Monsieur Claudin."

Erik nodded politely to Meg, who smiled wider and took Christine's arm and led her a few feet away.

"At last I get to meet the man you're always sighing over! He's _rich_, isn't he?" Before Christine could answer, Meg pressed on, "but what will your Phantom think?"

Christine's grin widened, and after a moment, Meg caught on.

"Oh, _no_," she said. "You… are completely… _daft_."

"Agreed," Christine said cheerily, freeing herself from Meg's grasp, which was beginning to hurt.

"Oh, no," Meg said again, "oh, my God, you are such an idiot."

Christine's smile faltered. Meg's expression was one of pure horror. "If you get caught…" she breathed. Christine placed a hand on her arm.

"I won't," she said.

"You better not." Meg placed her mask back over her face, and turned and ran into the crowd.

"Do you think she will tell?" Erik said, coming up behind Christine. His hand had gone inside his cloak.

"You do not have permission to kill my friend, Erik," Christine said quietly.

"Of course I wouldn't, Christine."

"Wouldn't you?"

Erik sighed. "No," Christine said, "she won't tell."

"Christine Daaé." It was Christine's turn to sigh. She turned around to see Madame Giry standing behind them. She'd come from the other direction as Meg, but Christine still held her breath.

Madame Giry looked Erik up and down.

"Who's this?" she said after a moment. Christine let out her breath.

"Madame Giry, this is Erik—"

"We've met," Erik said, giving Christine a look. Christine shut up. Giry stared from her to Erik and back again, and then tutted disapprovingly.

"I hope you know what you're doing," was all she said.

"Me too," said Erik. When Giry had gone, he turned and leaned down to Christine. "You see?" he hissed. "People who know me – sane people – they're _afraid_ of me, Christine. Why can't you see that?"

"Is this not what you want? Do you not love me, then?" Christine reached for his hand, half expecting him to pull it away, and not knowing what she'd do then, if he did. But he twined his fingers with hers.

"Of course I love you. Only, you know we shouldn't—"

"Erik. None of that." Christine smiled up at him. "You are ruining the mood and making me depressed. Honestly! It's a _celebration. _Let us go and join the party."

"Yes," Erik said, and she could hear the relief in his voice. "Yes. Mademoiselle Daaé, may I have this dance?"

"Of course, Monsieur Claudin."

He took her hands and led her to the open space where several other people were dancing, and neither of them noticed the soldier that broke away as they drew near.

"Who is that dancing with Miss Daaé?" he whispered to the maid who was watching.

Meg looked up, and then the soldier took off his black mask.

"Oh, Monsieur le Vicomte!" Meg shook her head, blond curls bouncing. "I do not know him, Monsieur. He _can _dance though, can't he?"

Raoul's face twitched, and he muttered darkly to himself for a moment. "What's wrong, sir?" Meg continued.

"Nothing," snapped Raoul. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, and when he turned back to Meg, he appeared as normal and cheerful as ever. "Miss Giry... would you like to dance?"

Meg looked just once at Christine, and then tried a smile. To her surprise, it didn't fit too poorly.

"Yes, Monsieur," she said.

* * *

The New Years' Ball was well underway. Dinner had been served, and many people had already retired from the table back to the dance floor. Everything was proceeding apace when there was a high-pitched scream from the general vicinity of the huge Christmas tree.

_Entirely too _operatic_, that, _Christine thought to herself, and went to go see, pulling Erik along behind her.

Giselle had collapsed at the base of the tree, with the red-wrapped book in her arms. Christine did not fail to notice that she had fallen quite conveniently onto the skirt with one arm flung out beneath her head. Andre was bending over her, flapping his hands, while Firmin attempted to extricate Erik's gift from her arms. His eyes narrowed as he read the note, and then his head jerked up and he groaned.

"Oh, not _again_…"

"This," Erik whispered in Christine's ear, "might be the time to make our exit, don't you agree?"

"Indisputably," Christine whispered back. He put his hand on her shoulder, and they drew backwards out of the quickly-gathering crowd. When they were sure they had not been noticed, they turned, and Erik led the way to the door beneath the stage, and they plunged down into darkness once more.


	10. Chapter 10

_AN/ Oh gosh, _laaaaaate_ update :( I'm so sorry! But this (le gasp) is the penultimate chapter! That's right – only _one chapter_ (and an epilogue) left! After this – well, I guess it's over._

_And don't worry – unless something drastic happens, our dear deranged murderer and his charming fiancée will get a happy ending ;)

* * *

_

**Chapter Ten: **In Which Raoul has a Cunning Plan

"Utter lunacy!"

"Preposterous!"

"What does he take us for? A pair of daft fools, perhaps?"

"I think that's exactly what he takes us for."

The argument traveled down the hall, getting louder as it drew nearer to the managers' office. Christine sat curled in a huge winged armchair, Raoul, Carlotta, and Piangi beside her, awaiting the arrival of Andre and Firmin. Raoul's hand was tight on Christine's shoulder. She wished he'd let go.

The door swung open and Andre and Firmin entered, carrying between them the Phantom's red book. As soon as they were through the door, Carlotta and Raoul both rounded on them.

"Thees ees an outrage! 'Ave you seen ze size of my part?"

"Miss Daaé _cannot _be made a part of this mad scheme!"

"Please, sit down," said Firmin. He sounded close to breaking, and Christine felt bad for him. He was a kindly gentleman, and didn't deserve all this.

Raoul thrust a note under Firmin's nose.

"Madame Giry gave us this," he said. "From the Phantom, who_ you _told us was gone."

"Monsieur—" Andre began, but Raoul cut him off.

"He is demanding that Miss Daaé perform and I won't allow it—"

Christine felt rather close to breaking as well, and as she listened to Raoul, she began to grow angry. Finally she stood up from her chair.

"Raoul! You are not my master, you are not my keeper, and I will say whether or not I would like to sing!"

Silence. Raoul and Carlotta both turned to stare at her incredulously.

"Of course," said Carlotta, eyes narrowing, "zees was all _your_ idea, wasn't eet?"

It was all Christine could do not to lunge at the woman.

"You think this is _my _fault? I'm just trying to make things easier! You want my part? You can have it! But try to deny that the author of this piece is dangerous and won't do something foul to you if you make a scene, and—" Christine bridled and stood up straight. "No. Never mind. I'd _like_ it if he got to you."

Carlotta went white.

"You should not say such things," she said. "'Ee could be listening."

Raoul looked up. Christine noticed he'd been standing silent and thoughtful-looking for the past minute or so.

"I have an idea," he said, so quietly that they all had to lean in to hear him. "We won't bother denying that Christine has been taking lessons from our resident Opera Ghost, since we all know it's true. He wrote this for her, and if she sings, he's certain to attend."

Firmin's eyes lit up.

"We make certain the doors are barred," he said.

"We make certain there are guards," said Andre.

"We'll catch him," Raoul said. "It'll all be over. Hire guards to stand around all doors and Box Five. With any luck this will be over within the month!"

Carlotta, Piangi, and the managers were so busy congratulating Raoul that neither of them noticed Christine gather up her skirts and slip away out of the office, a look akin to panic on her pale face.

* * *

"Erik! Erik!"

"Christine, my dear, what is it, what is wrong?"

Christine skidded on the damp stone and collided with the Phantom, gasping for breath, hands clutching at the back of his coat. Erik took her chin in one hand and turned her face towards him. "What has happened?"

"Th—th—"

"It's all right. Take your time." He bent to tuck one arm beneath her knees and lift her up. It was good he did, Christine thought, or she'd fall over. She put her arms around his neck and hung onto him, feeling like a frightened child.

"Oh, Erik, the Vicomte has a plan to try to catch you," she managed to whisper into his neck. Erik barely broke stride.

"I thought something like this would happen, eventually," he said, after a moment. "Don't worry, _ma petite souris. _I won't let them get me."

"If they do, you're hung for certain!"

"I know. I know." He kissed Christine's hair and set her down on the organ bench, gently. "I have lived beneath this opera house for twenty years and they have not found me, though my existence has been known the whole time. I am quite safe."

Christine nodded and then realized that there were tears pouring down her face. She blinked them away, almost ashamed. She hadn't cried in years, not even when Buquet died. Not since Father died, even.

Erik was smiling.

"I must admit I am pleased to see you worrying so for me, however," he said. Christine looked at him for a moment, then managed to shakily return his smile.

"I'd better go back," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, and succeeding. "They'll notice if I'm gone too long."

Erik nodded, candlelight glinting on his mask.

"Yes. I will see you this evening, then." He held out his hand, and Christine twined her fingers with his, and they walked together back towards the light. At the little stage-door, Christine stopped.

"Do you think…" she trailed off, started again, stopped again, and then said, "after _Don Juan_, Erik, I think we should leave this place." She looked up, meeting his gaze. "For good."

For a moment it looked as if Erik was about argue, but he thought better of it.

"If that is what you wish," he said slowly.

"We can go away. To America, maybe. We can get married _properly_, and we won't have to worry about your past, or Raoul, or anything. It will be better, Erik."

He nodded, still looking as if he'd like to argue.

"If you wish," he said again. Christine sighed, and smiled, and kissed the edge of his mask.

"You're sweet. Thank you, Angel." She pulled her hand free and gently twisted the handle of the little stage-door. "And, Erik?"

"Yes?"

"…I love you."

With that, she was gone.

* * *

The opera premiered on Friday evening. The night's audience didn't appear fazed by the presence of a half-dozen crisp-suited guards, nor by the fact that once the auditorium was full the doors were slammed, locked, and barred.

Behind the curtain, Christine paced nervously. Carlotta had conceded Christine the lead role, in keeping with Raoul's trap. She was scared. She thought she ought to have told Erik they needed to leave _now_, but this was his masterpiece and she didn't want to disappoint him and anyways, he was the Opera Ghost, simple guards couldn't catch him… right?

So she paced, silent, biting her black-gloved knuckles, overwhelmed with worry. Finally Carlotta snapped.

"Relax, girl! Ze reign of terror weel _end_ tonight. Or is zat what you're worried about?"

"Carlotta, do please be quiet," Christine muttered. Looking thoroughly offended, Carlotta shut up.

The orchestra started up. Christine swallowed, trying to calm herself. Then the curtains raised and she stood before an audience for what she desperately hoped would be the last time.

The second act. Christine's scene with Piangi, which she half-heartedly dreaded. It was with a foul taste in her mouth that she prepared to seduce him, and it came as a great surprise to her that the man who stepped out, hooded and cloaked, was not, in fact, fat and Italian.

_So that's why he dressed his characters up like this_, she thought, a smile creeping over her face for the first time that evening. Then: _oh, dear, what _has _become of Piangi_?

But she found it hard to worry about the tenor's fate, dancing with the man she knew must be Erik. She hadn't realized until now how well the Phantom could sing. Could he do everything?

It was at the end of their duet, when the false Piangi was to draw aside a curtain and reveal himself, that everything went to parts. There was a now-familiar, high-pitched scream, for when the drape had been pulled back, Piangi's corpse was revealed, a length of rope around his neck.

Raoul leapt to his feet. Christine, not thinking, turned and slapped Erik on the side of the face, hard enough to pull back his hood.

"_Merde!_" She cursed herself thoroughly in every language she knew and half-knew, but the damage was done. The guards were coming.

Then the stage bottomed out from underneath Christine and Erik, and they fell.

* * *

"Why? _Why,_ Erik? You promised!"

"This was always the plan," the Phantom said dully. He was staring straight into space, expressionless. There was a red mark on the unscarred half of his face where Christine had slapped him.

_He deserved it_, she thought, but she wasn't as angry as she supposed she ought to be. A normal woman would have left him. But Christine was not, and never had been, a normal woman.

"What kind of a plan was that? To get yourself killed? To get _Piangi_ killed? Erik, I swear to God if this happens again—"

"It won't," he said, in that same dull voice. Christine bit back her anger. She'd never heard him like this before, so devoid of emotion. _Why _must he keep killing people? Why did she _love _him so much? Why couldn't she hate him? She should have. Anyone should have hated him. She should turn him into the police, to Madame Giry, to _someone_… and yet she couldn't. She wouldn't betray him, because she loved him.

"You're an idiot, Erik. I'm an idiot. To think I believed you were an angel."

"Don't say that, Christine."

"And why not? You're not an angel. You are a murderer, Erik, and a girl with half an ounce of sense would let you hang, here and now, would give you over to that mob that is coming for you. Or had you forgotten about them?"

Erik looked at her. The blankness had gone from his dark eyes, replaced with an emptiness that made Christine feel honestly, truly _sorry _for him, for no reason, despite what he'd done.

"I'd deserve it," he said. "Giry saved my life, did I tell you that? I was seventeen when I came here. She stole me from a _freak show_." He spat the words out. "And this is how I've repaid her. Repaid you. I ought to let them hang me."

"No." Christine shook her head and began to move, gathering up her things, setting them down, rambling about among the rocks. "You shouldn't. You should come with me to the river. You should come with me on a ferry to America, and forget that any of this ever happened."

The hope in Erik's eyes was horrible.

"Then you forgive me?"

"No," Christine said, kneeling down beside him, "but I love you, and that's enough for now."

Erik leaned into her.

"Yes," he said. "It is."

They stayed that way for several minutes. Then a shout above them made Christine jerk her head up, and stagger to her feet.

"They're coming." She took Erik's hand and hauled him to his feet. "We must go. Now, Erik."

He looked around at the darkness, and the lake, and the candles, and sighed. Then he nodded.

"Now," he agreed.


	11. Chapter 11

_AN/ I finished the story really late last night, beware, and sorry if it's bad. Things should not be thought of after eleven o'clock. No matter. Please enjoy!

* * *

_

**Chapter Eleven:** In Which All's Well That Ends Well?

_L'alouette _left Paris late in January and sailed down the Seine; from _la manche _it chugged purposefully across the Atlantic to Manhattan, New York, where it arrived early in March. Its captain asked no questions and expected no answers. No thought was given to the young girl with long dark curls, or her mysterious masked suitor.

It was early one morning when Christine awoke to blinding light reflecting off water. She left Erik sleeping and padded to the window. The sun was rising over the waves into a clear sky.

The no-longer-Phantom stirred, and she turned to him.

"Good morning," she whispered, and he smiled blearily at her. She liked his smile, early, when he'd just woken up. It was more innocent. There was nothing wicked about it, not even that quiet amusement that he'd shown upon their meeting, almost a year before. "I am going abovedecks. I can't sleep. Would you join me?"

Several minutes later, they emerged, and Christine gasped. Ahead of them was the dark smudge of Manhattan, shadowed by a layer of thick black storm clouds. Behind them, the sky was clear, and the rising sun shone onto Manhattan, through the clouds. The cool air smelled clean and salt.

"It must have just stopped raining," Christine said.

"Christine. Look."

She turned where Erik was pointing, and her hands went to her mouth. _L'alouette _was steaming past a statue in the bay. She was a lady, with a pointed crown, holding aloft a torch. She was paneled in metal – it must have been bronze – and the sun blazed and burnished the surface into blinding gold.

"Ohh…"

"A gift from our government," Erik said, sounding amused, and Christine almost laughed with relief, hearing _that_ again. "I wonder how long it will take them to forget that."

"She is beautiful, isn't she?'

_L'alouette _chugged on. Christine and Erik stood, watching the golden lady disappear behind him as Manhattan drew ever closer.

Erik pulled Christine close.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

It was all Christine could do to nod. She put her head on his shoulder, smiling, full of hope that this would all resolve itself, that everything would be all right. Behind them, the statue smiled too, her golden skin glittering, making the world a promise.


	12. Epilogue

_Historian's Note/ I am well aware that the Statue of Liberty was given to America by the French in 1886, while the opera house mentioned in this last update burned down some twenty years before. It's called creative license. Live with it. ;)

* * *

_

**Epilogue**

Mr. Arthur Delacort, manager of the Astor Place Opera House, was a very fortunate man.

It had started that morning. The new opera just in from France was due to premier that very evening, when his leading soprano, one Ms. Walker, had come by and informed him that she would be eloping with her longtime lover and could therefore not perform.

Mr. Delacort had been in a quandary. He'd not known what to do. Dismayed, he'd begun pacing outside the opera house, hands behind his back, muttering to himself. It was then that the girl had appeared. She was young, maybe only seventeen, with long dark hair and big dark eyes, and very pretty.

"What is wrong?" she'd asked, in perfect but heavily accented English.

_French_, Mr. Delacort had thought.

"Oh," he'd said, "my lead soprano quit on me. I've got this new opera, _Hannibal_, you see, only I've no-one to sing the lead."

"Well," the girl had said, a smile playing about on her lips, "I could sing it."

Delacort had been surprised. He'd asked if she knew it. She'd laughed and said she rather thought she did. So, he'd let her audition. It couldn't hurt, he'd thought.

And he'd been amazed. The girl was wonderful. Never in his life had he heard such talent.

Yes, Mr. Arthur Delacort was very lucky indeed.

There'd just been one thing, though. He'd asked this girl, one Christine Claudin, if she'd had any questions before she assumed the role. She'd only had one, and it had been very odd:

"You don't, by any chance, happen to have a basement, do you?"

~_La Fin_~

* * *

_AN/ Oh my god, I actually finished! I hope you like it – I hope it turned out right. Thanks to everyone who gave me the awesome reviews – I feel so loved – y'all blow my mind right out of my face! _

_So let's celebrate! It's done! Everyone's happy (except the ones who are dead) and who knows… maybe one day there'll be another story to tell. At this point, however-_

_It's over now, the music of the night!_

_xoxo, Penny  
_


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